Rachel replied flatly, wondering how she was going to survive for three long days without riding. The prospect of not seeing Diego for days had nothing to do with the deflated feeling that had settled over her, she told herself firmly.
‘Before you go…these are for you.’ He reached behind his seat and handed her a huge bouquet of yellow roses, his mouth curving into a smile at her expression of stunned surprise. ‘To wish you a speedy recovery,’ he explained. ‘When I visited the florist’s the colour reminded me of your bright hair—and the sharp thorns were a painful reminder of your prickly nature,’ he added dryly, showing her several deep scratches on his hand. ‘I almost bled to death removing them.’
‘I don’t mean to be prickly; I’m just used to doing things for myself and making my own decisions, that’s all,’ Rachel mumbled, burying her face in the scented blooms because she could not bring herself to meet Diego’s gaze. Unaccountably, her eyes filled with tears and she blinked fiercely to dispel them. She wondered what he would say if she revealed that she had never been given flowers in her life—and then wondered where on earth she was going to put them when she did not possess a vase.
She sensed he was waiting for her to say something, and forced herself to speak. ‘They’re beautiful. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Diego paused, and wondered impatiently why he felt as edgy as a teenager on a first date. Rachel was a stable-hand, with an attitude problem and a sharp tongue—not the sort of woman he would usually be interested in. But he was intrigued by her and as he watched her tongue dart out to moisten her lips the tug of desire that had kept him awake for half the night intensified. ‘I was hoping they would persuade you to invite me in and offer me a cup of coffee.’
Rachel glanced at him, caught the unmistakable sensual gleam in his amber eyes and stared back at the golden bouquet, her heart beating very fast. It was only coffee, she reminded herself, and it seemed churlish to refuse when he had presented her with two dozen roses. ‘You’re welcome to come in for coffee. But I don’t live at the farmhouse. I live up there.’
Following her gaze, Diego restarted the engine and drove up the track that wound out of the farmyard and through a small copse of trees, his brows lowering in a frown when the track ended at a small shabby caravan nestled in the shade of a towering oak tree. ‘You don’t seriously expect me to believe you live in that?’
‘And the coffee is cheap instant,’ Rachel said sweetly. ‘Welcome to my home, Mr Ortega.’ While Diego stared out of the windscreen in patent disbelief, she jumped out of the car and unlocked the caravan, the heat that had built up inside hitting her as she pushed open the door. He had probably changed his mind about the coffee, she decided, trying to ignore her disappointment as she rummaged around in the cupboard under the sink, searching for a suitable vessel to hold the roses. She had unearthed a couple of jam jars when he climbed up the steps, ducking his head as he stepped through the door and instantly seeming to dominate the cramped space.
He glanced around the interior of the caravan and Rachel gave a silent groan when his eyes fell on the bed, which she had left down this morning because her shoulder had hurt too much to pack it away.
‘It’s what an estate agent might call a compact residence,’ she said brightly. ‘When the bed is folded away there’s actually a surprising amount of room—for me, anyway,’ she added when she glanced up and saw that Diego’s head was brushing the ceiling.
‘This can’t be your permanent home.’ He could not disguise his shock at her living conditions. ‘You just camp out here during the summer—right?’
‘No, I moved in here when I was seventeen, after my mother married for the third time and my twin half-sisters were born.’
Diego’s brows rose. ‘Family life sounds complicated.’
‘Believe me, it is. I went to live with my father for a while, but he and his new wife had also just had a baby and it was easier for everyone when Peter Irving offered me the caravan.’
Rachel’s voice was carefully controlled, giving no hint of how she had resented feeling like a spare part in her parents’ lives—unwanted, apart from being an occasional babysitter to her various half brothers and sisters. She had spent most of her childhood being passed between her mother and father, but she often thought that the bitter custody battle they had fought over her had been more about them trying to score points off each other than because either of them had actually wanted her to live with them.
It had been a far from idyllic childhood, and by the age of twelve she had been fiercely independent—getting up early every morning to do a paper round to pay for her riding lessons. She preferred horses to people and, after witnessing her parents’ various failed marriages, she was adamant that she never wanted to get married or be reliant on another human being.
‘The caravan is sound and dry, although it does shake a bit in strong wind,’ Rachel admitted as she spooned coffee granules into the two least chipped mugs she could find. ‘But it’s got all the basic amenities—a shower, and Peter rigged up a generator to provide me with electricity. I can’t afford to rent a house,’ she explained when Diego gave her a look that said he seriously questioned her sanity. ‘Property is very expensive around here, and everything I earn goes on Piran’s upkeep and competition fees.’
Diego noted that the caravan might be small and old, but it was immaculately clean. The collection of china horses arranged on the shelf above the cooker were free from dust, and on the miniature kitchen worktop stood a jar filled with wild daisies. Rachel’s home was as unconventional and dainty as its occupant, and he felt like a giant who had somehow squeezed himself into a doll’s house.
He would drink the coffee and then leave, he decided, shaking his head when she offered milk and sugar, and grimacing when he took a sip of the foul black liquid she handed him. He didn’t know why he hadn’t simply dropped her off at the farm entrance.
His eyes strayed to her slender figure and her pert derrière, moulded by her jeans, and he felt a tightening sensation in his groin. He was used to dating sophisticated socialites who wouldn’t be seen dead in anything other than designer labels, but there was something wholesome and incredibly sexy about Rachel’s scrubbed face and simple clothes. He wondered if she was aware that the sunlight streaming in through the window made her shirt semi-transparent. He could clearly see the outline of her breasts, and liquid heat surged through his veins.
He took a gulp of the hot coffee and felt it scald the back of his throat. ‘Do you live here alone?’ he asked shortly.
Rachel glanced around the cramped living space, her brows lifting expressively. ‘There’s barely enough room for me, let alone anyone else,’ she murmured.
‘So, no boyfriend sharing your bunk?’
‘No! I told you, I’m training hard in the hope of being picked for the British Equestrian team. I don’t have time for boyfriends.’ Much less the desire for one, she thought, her mouth firming. But that did not mean she was completely oblivious to men, or at least this man. She could not tear her eyes from Diego. He looked faintly incongruous, standing in her tiny caravan in his formal black trousers and beautifully tailored shirt. He reminded her of one of those impossibly gorgeous male models from a glossy magazine—and he should be somewhere exotic like Monte Carlo or Rio, not a field in rural Gloucestershire. But he was here, with her, and he was looking at her in a way that was making her heart race and her face feel hot.
She should have suggested that they drink their coffee outside, she thought frantically. But her garden furniture consisted of two upended feed buckets, and she could not picture suave Diego Ortega sprawling on the grass. The atmosphere inside the caravan suddenly seemed to be charged with electricity and she was agonisingly aware of his hard, lean body standing inches from her. She held her breath when he closed the gap between them, and her eyes darted nervously from his chest up to his face and focused helplessly on his sensual mouth. Her heart seemed to stop beating when he slid his hand beneath her chin and lowered his face so close to hers that she could see the tiny lines that fanned out from the corners of his eyes.